Swing for the Fences

We heard Mr. Bojangles before we saw him – barking in rapid-fire bursts as Jack and I rounded the last stretch of sidewalk. His big fuzzy head poked between the living room curtains like a sentry on high alert, tail ticking back and forth like a metronome having a panic attack.

 

The second my key hit the lock, everything detonated. The door cracked open, and forty pounds of canine missile shot past my knees, shrieking joy. Jack got one syllable of “Hey—” out before Mr. Bojangles launched like a linebacker and pancaked him into the grass.

 

I laughed – and then paid for it. The dog whirled, saw fresh prey, and steamrolled me. I tried a cool spin move. I failed. My jeans took a grass-stain bullet for the team.

 

“Great,” I wheezed into the lawn. “Mom’s gonna murder me for the laundry.”

 

I got him in a sloppy headlock and received a face wash for my bravery. Jack and I lay there wheezing, swatting at paws and tongue, absolutely no match. God, I’d missed this mutt.

 

It wasn’t just him. It was everything: the sharp-sweet smell of summer grass, the faint sound of cicadas, the front porch with its peeling white rail that I keep promising to paint. Home. And for the first time in a while, I didn’t feel like I was about to crack down the middle.

 

We finally dragged ourselves upstairs and swapped into our official dog-wrestling uniforms (destroy-me T-shirts and athletic shorts) and headed back out for round two. Mr. Bojangles charged, we wrapped him up, he shrimped out like a pro wrestler, we gave chase, repeat. At one point, Jack yelled, “Timeout!” and immediately got flattened again. It was chaotic and sweaty and ridiculous and exactly the kind of fun I didn’t know I’d been starving for.

 

When we collapsed in the grass, panting and filthy, we looked like survivors of a very adorable war.

 

Inside, the house smelled like sugar. A banner hung over the kitchen doorway – CONGRATULATIONS, NICK & JACK!!! – and balloons bobbed against the ceiling vents. On the counter: a small stack of gifts wrapped in Mom’s tuxedo-penguin paper because, in our house, every major life event is apparently penguin-coded.

 

There were summer things for me – board shorts, T-shirts, sandals. Then Jack opened a small package and went very still. A plain card in Nana Bev’s swoopy handwriting. Inside, a check for $5,000.

 

He stared at it like it might evaporate if he blinked. No smile, no joke, just this stunned quiet. Then he slid it back into the envelope and tucked it carefully into his backpack, like it was a passport to the rest of his life. His eyes were shiny, undecided about tears.

Mom’s voice gentled. “We’ll set up a savings account tomorrow, sweetheart. I think she plans to send more each month. Save most of it, and give yourself an allowance to practice budgeting.”

 

Jack nodded, but his brain was somewhere else. You could feel the air tighten around him. Was this generosity? Guilt? Both? Didn’t matter to me, but it might to him. He deserved it, though. If it had to come from someone other than his parents, fine. It was his grandmother showing up the way she knew how, and it was what was agreed upon – so he didn’t have to count quarters for a candy bar or pretend he didn’t want things everyone else took for granted. His parents always hid behind “tuition is all-inclusive.” Cool story. Life isn’t.

 

Sure, Nana Bev and Jack could’ve gone after his parents for a fat settlement – especially once I mentioned the photos I’d been hiding away for a rainy-day emergency. (I didn’t trust his smarmy, evil parents one bit; I wanted ammo in reserve.) We talked it through – just us, then with Jack, then with Nana Bev’s lawyers – and landed in the same place every time: suing might take years and turn Jack’s life into one lengthy cross-examination. His head and heart weren’t built for that grind. What he needed was a clean break and a path forward. So we let the fight go, and Nana Bev made sure his finances would be covered while he built something like a normal life.

 

Later, Mom told me in private that Nana Bev had offered a monthly check to cover Jack’s summer living expenses. Mom shut that down. “He’s family,” she’d said. “This isn’t a boardinghouse.” Nana Bev laughed and backed off, and Mom did that calm, immovable smile that somehow makes our kitchen the safest room on earth. Mom would even be covering Jack’s weekly allowance, although it’s not like he really needed one now, but Mom wanted to “teach him the value of work” or something like that.

 

Jack finally exhaled. “It feels… weird,” he said, rolling the envelope edge between his fingers. “I’m grateful – really – but I’m not used to not counting change. To have money that’s mine.”

 

“I get it,” I said. “My mom sent me a little each month. Not much, just enough so I didn’t feel like the broke kid all the time. This is the same thing, just scaled up. She’s your family. She can afford it. She wants to show up. Let her. It’s not charity – it’s family doing the thing families are supposed to do.”

 

Jack snorted, the sound a little watery. “I’ll probably blow it all on sketchbooks the first week.”

 

“Impossible,” I said, pointing a fork. “No human alive can spend five grand on paper and charcoal in seven days.”

 

“Please,” he said, rolling his eyes. “There are many other supplies, Nicholas. It’s called investing in my craft.”

 

Okay, Jack using my full first name? Weirdly hot. I kept that to myself, although I definitely felt a stirring in my pants.

 

“And the thrift shop clothes?”

 

“Also my craft.”

 

“Jonah’s gonna call you Thrift Store Jesus.”

 

He almost inhaled his sandwich. “Shut up. Now I’m imagining handing out secondhand loafers for communion.”

 

“Save most of it,” I said, “and spend some on whatever makes you feel like you.”

 

“I know how to budget, doofus.”

 

He nudged me under the table with his foot, but he was smiling now, softer. “It’s just… new. Money. Independence. Being cared for by a real family. It’s great – and kind of stressful.”

 

I squeezed his hand. “Then we figure it out together.”

 

Some tension melted out of his shoulders. Not all. Enough.

 

We were about to head up for showers – still sticky and grass-stained – when Mom cleared her throat and pointed us back into our chairs. Uh-oh. Mom Voice.

 

“When Nicky lived at home,” she said, giving me the look that can peel paint, “he had chores. He hated them. Life is cruel. Now that Jack is part of this family, he has chores too. Garbage, laundry, vacuum, mowing, dishwasher – the works. I work a lot. Doing everything alone while Nicky was off at school was… a lot.”

 

Ah yes. The classic maternal guilt sandwich. Delicious.

 

“Why didn’t you just hire a housecleaning service or maid?” I asked.

 

My mom gave me The Look. “Well, now that I have two strapping young men to help out, that won’t be necessary, will it?”

 

“No, ma’am,” Jack and I answered in unison.

 

“But next school year,” my mom continued, “I think that’s what I’ll have to do. I can’t keep up with work and the house on my own. And we can afford it.”

 

Jack blinked. “I… I’ve never really had chores. I don’t actually know how to do most of that.”

 

Mom raised an eyebrow, then smiled. “Then you’ll learn. Nicky will teach you. Also, our lawnmower has a personality. Keep both hands on it and pray.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Jack said. Not grudging. Almost cheerful. Like she’d just handed him something valuable.

 

Weird kid.

 

Except… it made sense. I’d spent half my childhood groaning about taking out trash while other kids were on bikes. To me, chores were proof that life wasn’t fair. To Jack, being asked to scrub a toilet meant he was on the team. In his old house, he was ignored or yelled at; staff did the “menial” stuff. Jack’s only responsibility, it seemed, was to stay out of his parents’ way. Here, Mom was basically saying: You belong, so you pitch in. Not a punishment. A Team Kincaid uniform.

 

I swear his posture changed – just a little, like he’d been issued a jersey.

 

It hit me then: we were different in ways I never thought about. I’d taken all this for granted. For him, chores were a door into the house. No guest privileges anymore – family rules. It made me feel closer to him, like a trial run at the post-school life we both orbit around in our heads: shared groceries, shared chores, me teaching him to cook without setting off the smoke alarm, two idiots getting it all done faster because we’re doing it together.

 

Mom finally released us, and we trundled upstairs. We unpacked first. I did my usual dump-and-sort. Jack moved like he was laying down a map of his future – shirts folded into drawers like offerings, sketchbooks stacked on the desk like sacred texts, toiletries lined up in the bathroom cabinet next to mine. He hovered a second over the toothbrush slot, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to take up that space.

 

“Hey,” I said from the doorframe. “You live here now. It’s your space. All the space on the left side of the sink is yours, and I’ll keep my stuff on the right side.”

 

He gave me a small, grateful smile and started organizing his toiletries on the bathroom vanity. Watching him try not to intrude made my chest ache. I don’t think I’d noticed how many “normal” things suddenly felt loaded for him.

 

We showered together – nothing dramatic, just heat and soap and us laughing about my cowlick and how criminally ticklish I am. Other than a few brief kisses and hugs, and Jack spending an inordinate amount of time washing my penis and butt, we didn’t really fool around. That would come later (I hoped). Now that we were out of the dorms and my mom’s bedroom was two floors above us (when she was even here at night), we could now make all the noise we wanted when it was “play time.”

 

By the time we came back down in fresh clothes, the day had body-checked us. Between the bus ride, dog mayhem, money-and-life talk, and now the Welcome-To-The-Family Chore List, we were toast. We collapsed on the couch, channel-surfed until we landed on some ancient sitcom rerun. Mr. Bojangles wedged himself between us like a furry chaperone.

 

We made it maybe twenty minutes. Jack was wearing that tiny, sleepy smile that says safe. The kind of smile you don’t get by accident.

 

Mom came home with Chinese takeout and caught us exactly as we were: her son wrapped around his boyfriend, a snoring dog plastered between. Not Norman Rockwell, but we were in the neighborhood.

 

We woke up enough to eat and debrief – finals, friends, summer assignments, next year's schedules, and our plans for the rest of the summer. Everything felt easy. Like we were already a family because, hello, we were.

 

We did confess to my mom that we didn’t really have any summer plans. My mom asked about hanging out with Tommy, and I gave her a noncommittal answer because she wasn’t aware of the “issues” Jack had previously had with Tommy. Although things seemed to have resolved themselves, you never did know with Jack. She said we had to come up with something, though, she said, because she didn’t want us lying around the house, watching TV, and playing video games until it was time to go back to school. So, that was another thing Jack and I had to figure out soon.

 

Then Mom’s smile tilted slyly. “So. Sleeping arrangements. Jack’s here most of the summer. The twin bed is not built for two growing boys.”

 

Jack and I traded looks. “We were thinking basement,” I said. “Bigger space. Big TV. Saves money on a bed. Extremely practical.”

 

“Practical,” Mom repeated, one eyebrow hitting the stratosphere. “Good to know your priorities.”

 

We went downstairs – and realized she’d been three steps ahead. The sofa bed was reupholstered. Matching nightstands. A recliner in the corner. A legit new mattress. She’d planned this. Of course, she had.

 

And then I saw it.

On the nightstand.

 

A Costco-sized box of condoms. Plus an XL tube of Astroglide Ultra Gentle.

 

I went crimson so fast I got lightheaded.

 

Jack yelped and dove under the covers like a prairie dog in fresh snow. I followed.

 

Mom has many strengths. Chill is not one of them.

 

I reminded her – firmly – that we were not having anal sex and maybe we could stop stockpiling The Supplies like we were outfitting a very specific apocalypse. We still had the first batch untouched. If it was a joke, the punchline had retired. And even when we eventually did it, we certainly didn’t plan to tell her. That would be just a little too much sharing for my comfort.

 

Later, after we’d laughed the embarrassment down to a manageable hum, we climbed into bed in just boxer-briefs. Spring had slipped into summer; a thin blanket did the job. Mr. Bojangles trotted in, hopped up, and collapsed across both our legs like he paid the mortgage.

 

I ran a hand down Jack’s back and gave his butt a squeeze. “Mr. Bojangles needs a bath.”

 

“Tomorrow,” Jack mumbled into my shoulder.

 

And that was it. Three warm bodies, one not-so-fresh dog, drifting off under the slow spin of the ceiling fan.

 

We were home. Our home. And for the first time, I believed we were ready for whatever came next.

 

 

***

 

We woke up planning a storm-free day – no meltdowns, no thunderheads, just sunlight, stupid jokes, and our chaotic mutt pinballing off the furniture. Michigan even looked like it remembered how to be summer: blue slice of sky, leaves doing their leafy rustle, the kind of warmth that makes you believe in sunscreen. We’d miss our friends, sure, but a little time in our own orbit felt right. And anyway, the house was big enough for “alone together” – if we needed space, we could splinter: I’d disappear to the porch with a book, Jack would colonize the basement with charcoal and a soundtrack that sounds like ghosts crying into tin cans. If we got truly sick of each other, there was always an Uber downtown. But we’d shared a room all year without imploding. Why would today be different?

 

Naturally, fate overheard us and said, “Hold my Vernors.”

 

There it was on the counter: a fat envelope clipped to our beat-up grocery tote—the one with the immortal strawberry stain that’s survived seven wash cycles and a prayer vigil. On top sat a note in Mom’s schoolteacher scrawl:

 

Please pick up needed items for lunch and dinner — list on fridge.
Also, expect a surprise visitor this afternoon. Be nice. :)
Love you both.

 

Jack stared like it was a ransom demand cut from magazines. “Surprise visitor?”

 

“Could be anyone,” I said. “Jehovah’s Witnesses. An IRS auditor. The Oscar Mayer Wienermobile looking for a place to plug in.”

 

“God, please not a social worker,” he said, and then we both made the exact same groan – like two suburban dads told the gutters need cleaning.

 

We showered together, threw on clean clothes, and trudged to the bus stop armed with the wrinkled list and Mom’s envelope of cash. Grocery shopping isn’t fun, but compared to family chaos? I’ll take salsa over shouting any day.

 

Somewhere between “bread” and “bananas,” Jack confessed he’d never actually been grocery shopping. Not once. He said it as if he were admitting he’d never seen the ocean.

 

“This could be interesting,” I said, which is teen-boy for “This will be chaos.”

 

The store breathed cool on our faces, a corporate pine scent wrestling the smell of rotisserie chickens. Jack pushed the cart with the wobble-wheel and an expression like he’d been entrusted with nuclear codes. I read from the list.

 

“Eggs,” I said.

 

He picked up a carton, then another, then held them both to his ear like seashells.

 

“They… sound the same.”

 

“You open and check for cracks.”

 

He opened. “Oh my God, there’s a whole inspection? Do I get a badge?”

 

“Only if you survive dairy.”

 

Dairy was a war zone: brands shouting in fonts that looked like they came from the 1950s and others that looked hand-lettered by a goat influencer. We argued over shredded cheese.

 

“Pre-shredded is coated in anti-caking dust,” I said.

 

“Dust sounds delicious,” he countered. “Also, ‘anti-caking’ is my drag name.”

 

We negotiated a diplomatic solution: block cheese and the grater that will skin your knuckles if you disrespect it.

 

Produce turned into a nature documentary. Jack investigated avocados as if he were trying to find their pulse.

 

“You want it to give a little,” I coached.

 

He squeezed one, horrified, as if testing a stress ball. “This feels like a bruise.”

 

“That means it’s ready.”

 

“So we’re just… buying bruises now?”

 

We debated cilantro. “It tastes like soap,” he declared.

 

“Magic,” I declared.

 

“It’s genetic,” he said. “Don’t be cilantro-phobic.”

 

“Cilantro-supremacist,” I muttered, and tossed a bunch in anyway. He retaliated with a bag of pre-cut pineapple, which is highway robbery but looks like sunshine and smells like birthdays.

 

Somewhere between onions and jalapeños, the errand shifted. Jack was pushing the cart while I read labels, brushing past me to grab the better tomato, bumping shoulders at the display – suddenly, it felt like the future I wanted when I let myself want things. Dumb, domestic, stupidly happy stuff, like arguing about whether “mild, medium, or hot” is a personality test.

 

“Taco night?” I offered.

 

“Bulletproof,” he said. We loaded taco shells, ground beef, too many seasoning packets (one is a hate crime), lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and a salsa jar that screamed EXTREME HEAT! in three languages like a dare: ¡Muy picante! 極辣！Sehr scharf!

 

Jack added ingredients for a three-bean salad and frowned at the beans like they’d personally wronged him. “Which beans are the fun beans?”

 

“What do you mean by ‘fun’ beans?” I asked warily.

 

“The ones that give the ass-slapping, noxious farts all night,” he answered, grinning evilly.

 

“Get cannellini, kidney, and garbanzo beans … and if you fart once in bed tonight, you’re sleeping on the couch,” I warned him.

 

“Put that on a tote bag,” he said, giggling insanely.

 

I grabbed a box of Spanish rice and two bottles of organic horchata that probably tastes like sweet chalk and childhood. We needed a vegetable side, so I pitched esquites. “It’s like corn that went to charm school. Onions, jalapeños, lime, mayo, cheese, chili powder.”

 

“You had me until ‘mayo,’” he said.

 

“It emulsifies the experience.”

 

“Only you would find a way to slip ‘emulsify’ into a normal conversation,” he smirked.

 

Then I saw it. Endcap of destiny: Vernors Black Cherry, limited edition. I squealed. Actually squealed. The sound that left my body could only be heard by dolphins and Michiganders. Jack doubled over, choking on air.

 

“Sir,” he stage-whispered, “this is a Kroger. Control yourself.”

 

“History is happening,” I hissed, cradling two twelve-packs like newborns. The cashier definitely looked like she was deciding whether to press the button for “manager” or “exorcist.”

 

By checkout, we were high on domestic power. Coupons deployed like tactical strikes, loyalty card flexed, reusable bags unfurled. We strutted out like champions. Snacks tucked under our arms – Raisinets and cheddar-flavored Chex Mix for me, Cookie Dough Bites and salt and vinegar potato chips for Jack – we waited for the bus while Jack narrated his first-ever grocery trip as if he’d just returned from Everest.

 

“You scan everything. It beeps. And nobody judges your life choices except the lady behind you who sighs when you have coupons.”

 

“Ah, yes,” I said. “You have met Diane, Empress of Checkout Lane Three.”

 

Back home, Mr. Bojangles supervised like a drill sergeant. When I dropped a grape, he dove like it was a live grenade. He stationed himself between us and the fridge, issuing tiny harrumphs every time we dared open a bag without consulting him first. We unpacked to a soundtrack of clinking jars and our playlist that ping-ponged from 80s bangers to sad boy indie and back.

 

We collapsed in the basement, two full-body flops onto the couch. On TV, hollow-eyed commentators thundered about “sending troops into blue cities to hunt illegals,” like hate is a hobby. It seeped into the room like static, a reminder that the world outside is loud and broken. Jack muted it. We didn’t need that noise today.

 

The real show was still on the nightstand: the Costco box of condoms and the XL tube of Astroglide, like they’d appeared via summoning circle.

 

“Um.” Jack pointed. “Is your mom… serious?”

 

I smothered my face with a pillow and groaned. “Either a breathtaking gesture of trust or the most deranged prank.”

 

“She must think we’re sex Olympians. That box could supply a small nation.”

 

“Or a reality show,” I said. “Teen Basement, Season 1: Latex City.”

 

Jack eyed the label. “Both the size and the quantity are… optimistic.”

 

“Depends on who’s—”

 

He punched my arm. We laughed. Then his face shifted – eyes narrowing, mouth going twitchy – the look he gets when something big is gnawing at his brain.

 

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Do you ever… think about it?”

 

My heart replied by attempting a drum solo. “Think about what?”

 

“You know. It. Going all the way. Butt sex. Anal intercourse.”

 

Oh.

 

We’d joked, made the word “sex” sound like a cartoon sneeze, but this wasn’t that. This was capital-S Serious.

 

“Yeah,” I said, throat suddenly dry. “Kind of a lot. But it’s… a big deal. To me.”

 

“Totally,” he blurted. “We don’t have to. I just – sometimes I think about it. With you.”

 

Something inside me twisted: hope and terror braided together. “Do you… actually want to?”

 

He shrugged, soft, but his eyes were steady. “It’s not just wanting it. It’s wanting it with you. Always you.”

 

There went my poor heart, out the window, waving tiny flags.

 

“So,” I said, careful like stepping onto a frozen pond, “do you think you’d be… bottom or top?”

 

His cheeks pinked. “I’ve kind of… pictured being on the… um… bottom. Is that okay?”

 

“Of course,” I said, too quickly. “We could switch sometimes if you wanted.”

 

He gnawed his lip. “What about Noah? What did you do with him?”

 

The name fell between us like a rock. I swallowed. “We never went all the way. Some stuff, yeah. Afterward, I felt… gross. Not because of what we did, but because of who he turned out to be. I’m scared that if you and I broke up, I’d feel that way again. Like I gave away something I can’t get back.”

 

Jack didn’t flinch. He just nodded – no judgment, no recoil. Just… Jack.

 

“And I’m scared of being bad at it,” I admitted. “Like, Olympic-level awkward. Elbow you in the eye mid-thrust or something like that. And just doing it is supposed to hurt.”

 

“We will be awkward,” he said, with a little smile. “And weird. Maybe gross. But it’ll be our awkward and our weird.”

 

Something unclenched in my chest.

 

“And what if… what if I freeze up or can’t get hard?” I said. “Noah called me a prude.”

 

Jack turned fully, took my hand, and squeezed like he was handing me a life raft. “Nick, I’m not Noah. I don’t care what he said. I’m here because it’s you. I don’t love you because of sex. I love you, period. And, believe  me, I will  make sure you can get it up!”

 

The room went soft-focus. He kissed the back of my neck and murmured, “There’s no deadline. We start talking, so when we are ready, it’s not scary.”

 

“Talking helps,” I said. “Talking about it actually… kind of makes me—”

 

“Horny?” he supplied.

 

“I was going to say ‘optimistic,’ but sure. Maybe… before the summer’s over?”

 

“Whenever you want,” he said, warmth reaching places the basement heater can’t.

 

We both looked at the box.

 

“She’s going to count them,” Jack whispered.

 

“She already has a spreadsheet,” I said.

 

“I’m terrified.”

 

“Simple solution,” I deadpanned. “We never use them.”

 

He squinted. “Are you sure you want to joke about that?”

 

“Fine. CDC, safe practices, talks with Mom’s spreadsheet ghost. One step at a time. But, I’m a virgin, and you’re a virgin, so … theoretically, it should be totally safe.”

 

He kept glaring at the box. “It’s staring at us.”

 

“We should name it,” I said. “Make peace.”

 

He thought. “Chad.”

 

“Chad?”

 

“Total condom name.”

 

I cackled so hard I almost fell off the couch, and for a moment, the heaviness blew out the window with my dignity. It was just us again: two idiots, one inside joke, the future sitting politely on the coffee table waiting its turn.

 

We decided to cook early so the kitchen could cool off by evening. We cranked our playlist. I grated cheese and sacrificed a knuckle, which Jack tenderly covered with Neosporin and a Band-Aid. Jack learned to dice an onion without weeping like a widow (“Breathe through your mouth,” I coached; he did and looked like a gasping carp). Mr. Bojangles patrolled, filing formal complaints every time a piece of lettuce hit the floor instead of his mouth.

 

I taught Jack the taco-seasoning gospel: you bloom the spices in fat, so the flavor marries the meat like a soap opera wedding. We drained the pan (Jack held the lid like a shield and shouted, “I HAVE THE POWER!”). Then I stirred in the slurry while he announced, “It smells like every food truck I’ve ever wanted to live in.”

 

The esquites popped and hissed, jalapeños perfuming the air, lime cutting through the richness, mayo folding in like a scandal you can’t stop reading. Jack kept “taste-testing” with a spoon the size of a shovel.

 

“For science,” he said.

 

“For jail,” I said, smacking his hand with the spatula.

 

We set the table like it was the UN – bowls of toppings, shells warming in the oven, Black Cherry Vernors chilling in a bowl of ice like VIP guests. The house felt full in that good way, the way that says if a surprise visitor shows up, you have enough to share.

 

“Speaking of,” Jack said, glancing at the clock. “What if the surprise is… bad?”

 

“It’s Mom,” I said. “At worst, it’s Aunt Linda with a multi-level marketing scheme.”

 

“Or your grandparents with ‘constructive feedback.’”

 

“Then we fake our deaths and move to Djibouti,” I shrugged.

 

We carried our plates downstairs, claimed our couch kingdom, and queued up a dumb movie. The first bite was ridiculous – hot, crunchy, tangy, the kind of food that makes you hum into your hand. We clinked cans like we were celebrating something bigger than lunch.

 

“To domestic excellence,” Jack said.

 

“To our first grocery run,” I said. “May Diane of Lane Three forget us.”

 

We were halfway through our second tacos when Mr. Bojangles lifted his head and made the low “something approaches” grumble. A shadow crossed the frosted rectangle of the back door. Then – three confident knocks.

 

Jack’s eyes flicked to mine. “Surprise visitor?”

 

I wiped my hands on a napkin, heart picking up speed for no good reason. “Only one way to find out.”

 

We paused the movie. The house seemed to hold its breath. Upstairs, the wind pushed a branch against the siding in a slow scrape. The knocks came again – polite, patient, like they belonged here.

 

“Be nice,” Jack whispered, quoting Mom’s note.

 

“I am a beacon of Midwestern hospitality,” I whispered back, which is a lie I tell often.

 

I took a step toward the stairs, then another. Behind me, Jack stood, eyes bright, half-excited, half-worried, the light from the TV turning him blue and flickery. Mr. Bojangles trotted ahead like our secret service, tail up, ready to greet or repel.

 

Whatever waited on the other side of the door would break our little bubble. Maybe in a good way. Maybe not. But as my hand closed around the banister, I glanced back, and Jack gave me the smallest nod – the kind that means together.

 

Fate had laughed at us this morning. Fine. Let it. We had tacos, a dog with delusions of grandeur, a basement we were slowly claiming as ours, and a box of condoms named Chad. We could take a surprise.

 

I climbed. The house creaked its old familiar creaks. The knocks came one last time –soft, certain – and I reached for the door.

 

***

 

I was surprised, alright.

 

Tommy Reese. My old middle-school friend – the same Tommy who’d come with us to Michigan’s Adventure over spring break and screamed like a teakettle on the big drop, then bought everyone funnel cake like a hero. Back then, he and Jack had gotten along fine… or at least that’s how it looked until the jealousy crept in the day after. I’d meant to reconnect this summer, since he was my only real friend back home, I liked him (as a good friend), and he was fun to be around. I figured we could go out for coffee, catch up, maybe play a few sets of tennis, hang out, and perhaps even take a few more amusement-park road trips. But not like this: ambushed on my doorstep before I’d had a pre-game strategy session with Jack, to make sure he’d be cool with it.

 

Tommy was still Tommy: blond, tall, all elbows and cheekbones, looking like a Hollister mannequin that overslept but still somehow pulled it off. A couple of pimples dotted his otherwise unfairly decent face. Mr. Bojangles trotted over, gave his crotch a single, solemn sniff, sighed like a war-weary retiree, and padded off as if to say, seriously? I wasted my time on this?

 

Here’s the thing: Mom didn’t know when she set this up (because how could she?): there might be a little static between Jack and Tommy. Not huge, scary, lightning-strike static – more like the kind that makes your arm hairs lift. Little shocks. Little looks. Mostly Jack. Mostly jealous. Mom’s goal had been sweet and simple – get us out of the house with a friend, touch some grass, and don’t hibernate with video games all summer. She wanted laughter and fresh air, not… whatever this was shaping up to be.

 

I was happy to see Tommy. I might’ve hugged him. But the caution light was already blinking.

 

“Hey, bro,” I said, going for a neutral fist bump.

 

“Good to see you,” Tommy said, bumping back. His eyes flicked to Jack. “Jack, right? Nicky’s better half?”

 

“Yep,” Jack said. Tone flat. Smile missing.

 

Tommy offered a fist bump. Jack looked at it like it had teeth.

 

Tommy put both hands up. “Relax. Our moms decided we needed a ‘play date.’ Their words.”

 

And with no heads-up. Thanks, Mom. I could only pray that this wouldn’t turn into a disaster.

 

“Come in,” I said, trying to buoy the moment. “We’ve got Black Cherry Vernors.”

 

We cracked sodas. Small talk limped. Tommy asked about summer plans; I talked about tennis and yard work; Jack contributed exactly one eyebrow and the sound of carbonation. The air felt thin, as if the room were at a higher altitude than usual.

 

“So what’ve you guys been up to?” Tommy asked cheerfully.

 

Jack didn’t miss a beat. “Mostly arguing whether to overthrow a small country or suck each other off on the trampoline. We think Guinea-Bissau is vulnerable. They have only 4,000 men in the army, and they’re poorly armed and poorly motivated. The only problem is, neither of us speaks Guinea-Bissau Creole, or even Portuguese.”

 

Tommy sprayed soda. Full geyser. I face-palmed so hard my forehead stung.

 

“Jesus, Jack,” I hissed.

 

Jack shrugged, a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “What? I didn’t say we were building a backyard sex dungeon. That’s growth.”

 

Tommy laughed, but it was the brittle kind – just enough to say “I’m fine” without actually being fine. He checked his phone. Twice.

 

I noticed the tells in Jack: the tight jaw he gets when he’s pretending not to care; the knee bouncing under the coffee table; the way his jokes edged just past funny into sharp. This wasn’t his usual snark. It was… off-brand. Hotter around the edges.

 

I tried to shift the energy. “Tennis?” I suggested. “Courts are dry. Could be fun.”

 

“Sure,” Tommy said. Relief flickered across his face like a porch light.

 

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Can’t wait to watch Nick flex.”

 

At the courts, I went gentle – a lot of lobs, the kind of ball your grandma could return in church shoes. Even so, I was Federer, and they were two guys fighting invisible bees. I fed Tommy backhands he could step into; he loosened up after a few whiffs and started landing them. Every time Tommy snagged a clean point, Jack clapped too loudly and muttered, “Careful, babe. Don’t flex too hard. Tommy might swoon and start a scrapbook.”

 

“Dude,” I warned softly.

 

“Kidding,” he said, except he wasn’t. Not really.

 

Between games, we collapsed in the shade, each with a bottle of water, sweat making maps on our shirts. I pulled the conversation toward neutral.

 

“How’s your summer league?” I asked Tommy.

 

“Coach says I’m improving,” he said, embarrassed, like improving was a confession. “I’m trying to put on muscle, but my body’s like, ‘No thanks, I’m into pipe cleaner chic.’”

 

It was a decent joke. I laughed. Jack didn’t.

 

“Got a girlfriend? Boyfriend?” Jack added, like he’d just remembered the concept of casual conversation but wanted to interrogate it. “Or a very special goldfish?”

 

Tommy coughed. “Uh… no.”

 

He took another long drink and kept his eyes on the court. I could feel him shrinking into himself, trying to make less surface area.

 

Tommy shifted the spotlight. “Your school… is it… you know, gay-friendly?”

 

“It’s fine,” I said. “Like any place – good people, random jerks.”

 

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Unless someone’s a jackass. But hey, free rainbow flag with enrollment.”

 

Tommy gave a small “cool,” which here meant: I still don’t know where to put my hands.

 

On the walk home, Jack drifted three steps ahead of us, shoe scuffing on purpose. Tommy tried twice to match his pace; Jack accelerated just enough to keep the gap. I told myself I was imagining it. I’m good at telling myself that.

 

Mom flung the back door open when she heard us. “Tommy! Perfect timing.” She was in full Food Network mode – apron, tongs, a halo of steam. “Stay for dinner! Ribs, sweet potatoes, corn, coleslaw, pasta salad, charcuterie—”

 

Tommy blinked. “Uh… sure?” Because who says no to ribs?

 

“Great,” Mom said, completely unaware she’d just added a third chair to a table set with trip wires. Her face said: I am fixing summer for these boys. She had no idea there was anything to fix.

 

Jack muttered just loud enough for me to hear, “Awesome. Nothing says ‘welcome home’ like a government-mandated three-way.”

 

“Knock it off,” I hissed at him.

 

Dinner was a feast. Ribs falling off bones; corn dripping butter and tajín; pasta salad drowning in mayo, the way God intended. Mr. Bojangles circled like a jewel thief casing the vault. The food was loud; the conversation… wasn’t. Mom tried: How are your parents? How’s the team? You boys getting outside? Tommy answered politely, eyes on his plate. Jack picked at his food like it had personally disappointed him.

 

Then Mom dropped it, smiling the kind of smile that means she’s made a plan. “Tommy, would you like to spend the night?”

 

I almost spat out my drink. “Mom! We’re not seven. Teenage boys don’t do sleepovers.”

 

She tilted her head. “Don’t you and Jack have sleepovers every night?”

 

Jack and I turned the exact color of the ribs. If she knew what “sleepover” meant some nights… well, given the Costco-sized box of supplies, maybe she did. I tried not to die on the spot.

 

Tommy tried to wriggle out, bless his heart. “I don’t have my stuff.”

 

“That’s fine,” Mom chirped. “We’ll go get it. You only live a few blocks away!”

 

Jack groaned into his plate. “Fantastic. Slumber party 2.0. Want me to braid his hair before truth-or-dare?”

 

In the SUV, Mom hummed along to the radio and talked about the weather. Jack sat in the back with his arms folded and his gaze on the window like the glass owed him money. Halfway there, he muttered, “Great. Field trip to pick up pajamas for my boyfriend’s ex-crush.”

 

Tommy’s head snapped around. “Ex what?”

 

“Don’t mind him,” I said quickly, heat hitting the back of my neck. “He’s auditioning for Jealous Boyfriends: The Musical.”

 

Jack smirked, but it didn’t have any joy in it. He didn’t take it back.

 

At Tommy’s house, we did the world’s fastest pack: toothbrush, T-shirt, phone charger, and a paperback that looked like school punishment. His mom waved from the kitchen; Tommy said, “Back later,” like he wasn’t sure if that was true. On the drive home, nobody talked. The silence was thick enough to chew.

 

Back in the basement, I tried to reset. I dragged out extra blankets, made a pallet for Tommy, and fluffed the sofa for Jack and me. Mr. Bojangles supervised with alarming interest in all piles. I queued a movie that was long enough to be a peace treaty, and loud enough to discourage conversation.

 

Jack looked at the screen and snorted. “Oh, good. Nothing screams ‘hetero sleepover’ like a three-hour gay cowboy drama.”

 

“Grow up,” I said, but too lightly.

 

We changed – Tommy in white CK briefs like a walking ad, Jack and I in our usual boxer-briefs. I looked for a half-second too long at Tommy by habit, the way anyone looks when a person is suddenly just standing there in their underwear. I shut it down fast. I prayed Jack hadn’t noticed.

 

He had.

 

Five minutes into the movie, Jack sat up. “You know what? I’ll sleep on the floor too. Wouldn’t want to traumatize poor Tommy with the sight of two gay boys spooning like it’s the Olympics.”

 

“What the hell, Jack?” I snapped before I could stop myself.

 

Tommy held up his hands. “Seriously, I don’t care. Negative zero cares.”

 

Jack stared at the carpet. “Cool. Just checking. Last thing we need is Tommy sprinting home like, ‘Breaking news: Nick likes dick. Somebody call CNN.’”

 

“Dude, I would never,” Tommy said, and for the first time that day, his voice had an edge. “I’m here because your mom invited me. I like hanging out with Nick. I’m not – whatever you think. And I like you, too. I thought we had a good time and got along fine over spring break.”

 

I felt awful for Tommy. We’d made so much progress in our friendship over spring break, and now Jack was threatening to undo that. And they did get along over spring break. It wasn’t until later that Jack started showing signs of jealousy, but even then, it wasn’t this bad. I was beginning to worry that this was a warning sign that Jack was on the verge of an episode. It had been a long while since he had, and he’d been taking his meds, so I wasn’t sure what was going on or what to do. Part of me wanted to wait and see if it would subside, but another part wanted to tell my mom immediately.

 

Tommy settled onto the pallet and lay on his side, back to us. The dog circled twice and flopped down with a groan, tail thumping once against Tommy’s foot like a tiny apology. On screen, a cowboy said something tragic. In the room, nothing moved.

 

I pressed pause. “Jack,” I said quietly. “Walk with me. Two minutes.”

 

We stepped into the laundry room. The hum of the dryer, the lemony smell of detergent, a bulb that buzzed like a fly. Jack leaned on the washer, arms still folded, eyes hot and glassy.

 

“What’s going on?” I asked.

 

He shrugged, jaw tight. “Nothing.”

 

“Jack.”

 

“I love you, Nicky,” he cooed, slipping into that tiny kid voice, and hugged me.

 

“I love you, too, baby,” I said, “but you’re not acting like you. I’m kinda worried. What’s going on?”

 

Jack swallowed. His fingers worried the hem of his T-shirt. “I don’t like sharing,” he said, too fast. Then, softer: “I feel like I have to compete. For you.”

 

“You don’t,” I said. “You already won. There’s nothing to compete for.”

 

He nodded, but it bounced off him. “He used to be your crush.”

 

“In eighth grade,” I said. “And it was never a ‘crush.’ We were just casual friends, that was it. I’ve told you this several times before. Tommy and I are just friends. That’s the way it’s always been and the way it always will be.”

 

“Still counts,” Jack whined.

 

“It doesn’t at all,” I said, but even to me it sounded like a teacher's answer. Correct, not comforting.

 

“I’m sorry, Nicky,” he said, using his tiny kid voice again. “I just love you so much.”

 

For a second, I thought he might cry. He didn’t. He did that other thing – pulled the mask back on, made a joke of it.

 

“Fine,” he said, back to his normal voice. “Put me in, Coach. I’ll be good now.”

 

He wasn’t. Not really.

 

Back in the basement, I hit play. Tommy didn’t turn around. Jack lay down and curled close like always, but his breathing stayed shallow and quick like he’d run a race he didn’t train for. He whispered, “Nick?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Please.”

 

I didn’t know what the please was for – reassurance, a boundary, a magic word to fix the knot in his chest. I smoothed his hair back and said the only thing I had. “I’m here, and I love you more than anything.”

 

We watched the movie to capture our attention. It didn’t take. Tommy laughed at a quiet joke in the second act, too loud, then immediately apologized to the air. Jack made two comments he thought were funny, but weren’t. I tried to bridge, asked Tommy about his book, asked Jack about the three-bean salad he’d basically adopted at the store (and thanked him for not farting under the covers … yet), and tried to draft them into the same sentence. It worked for exactly four seconds at a time. Then it slipped.

 

When the lights finally went out, Tommy mumbled, “Thanks for dinner,” into his blanket. Mr. Bojangles snored like a tiny chainsaw. Jack shifted closer and tucked himself into the space under my arm like he always does, but his muscles were still buzzing. It felt like I was holding a live wire and pretending it was a rope.

 

“Tomorrow will be better,” I said into his hair, and hoped the room couldn’t hear that I didn’t believe it yet.

 

We lay there while the dehumidifier clicked on, off, and on again. Upstairs, the fridge made that hollow thunk that always sounds like footsteps if you’re looking for ghosts. I stared at the ceiling, replaying every line, every look, trying to locate the exact moment it tilted. I kept thinking: fix it. Find the right joke, the right plan, the right string to tug so the knot loosens.

 

Nothing tugged.

 

Mom had meant well – get us outside, get us with a friend, keep summer from turning into a couch imprint. She couldn’t have known she’d sat us down at a table with the legs uneven. And Jack… Jack had been good for so long. Steady. Meds right, sleep mostly normal, jokes that landed, storms held at bay. But tonight I could feel a low-pressure system building – a headache behind the eyes, the way birds get weird before rain.

 

I kissed Jack’s temple. He finally started to drift, breath slowing, the wire easing under my hand.

 

Across the room, Tommy turned over once, twice, and stayed on his back staring at the dark, as if he was listening to a conversation we weren’t saying out loud.

 

Tomorrow would be better, I told myself again.

 

And under that, softer, where I didn’t want to hear it: or it wouldn’t.

 

 

 

 

If you've enjoyed this chapter, please send any feedback, comments, or suggestions to littlebuddhatw@proton.me

We authors thrive on feedback of any kind, so whether you're loving the story, have constructive criticism, have questions, or whatever, please drop me a line and I always reply to all my emails!

And don't forget to follow me on Twitter/X: @littlebuddhatw for story updates and extra goodies for my followers!